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MICHAEL STRANGE 

[PHOTOGRAPH BY ARNOLD GENTHe] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



By 

Michael Strange C 




NEW YORK 

MITCHELL KENNERLEY 

1916 



COPYE.IGHT 1916 BY 
MITCHELL KENNERLEY 






MAR 17 1917 



PRINTED IN AMERICA 



i/M 



aA^55919 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



THE YOUTH AND HIS SOUL 

THE RETURN OF YOUTH AND HIS SOUL 



MOODS: I. 
II. 




III. 


REBELLION 


IV. 




V. 




VI. 




VII. 


" ENDING " 


VIII. 




IX. 


THE SPIRIT OF LOVE 


X. 


THE SPIRIT OF LONELINESS 


XL 


THE SPIRIT OF SOUL 


XII. 




XIII. 




XIV. 




XV. 


" CONCESSION " 


XVI. 


SUICIDE 


XVII. 


RUN INTO THE FIELDS WITH 


WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO HAVE LIVED? 



ME 



A WOMAN PASSED ME 

TO DEATH 

IT IS A GLORIOUS MOMENT 

WEARINESS 

GRIEF 

JANUARY MORNING 



PAGE 

3 

7 

10 

ii 

12 

14 
15 
16 

17 
18 
19 

20 
22 
23 

24 

25 
26 
28 
30 
31 
32 

34 
35 
36 

37 
38 



CONTENTS 





PAGE 


DESPAIR 


39 


THOUGHTS AFTER AN HOUR SPENT IN A 


CAB- 


ARET 


40 


SLEEP 


42 


NEW YORK — ETCHED 


43 


QUATRAINS: I. TO XVII. 


45 


HUITAIN: I. 


SO 


II. SADNESS 


50 


III. 


5i 


SONNET 


53 


GOOD NIGHT 


53 


THOSE SINS 


54 


MADONNA OF THE EYES 


55 


OH, HOW YOU HAUNT ME 


56 


SO PASSED THE MOMENT OF OUR LIVES 


57 


YOU ARE WHAT I CAN NEVER FIND 


58 


YOUR THOUGHTS 


59 


FOR ALL MY LIFE 


60 


YOUR HANDS, MY DEAR 


61 


THE DRESS 


62 


AIMS 


63 


TO NELLIE 


64 


SOLDIER'S DEATH 


65 


THE MORE I LIVE 


66 


TO-DAY 


67 


YOUR EYES 


68 


I WAKE IN WEARINESS 


69 


WHEN YOU COME TO ME 


70 


YOU ARE THE IMPOSSIBLE 


7i 


EPILOGIA AMORI 


72 


CAN IT BE? 


74 


DISEASE 


75 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

WHAT IS THIS MONSTROUS DELIRIOUS OBSES- 
SION? 76 
I SAID GOOD NIGHT TO YOU 77 
IN MY GARDEN 78 
APHRODITE 80 
SPRING 81 
TO-NIGHT COMMENCES THE CITY SUMMER 82 
SISTERS 83 
LOOKING INTO LAKE COMO AT MIDDAY 84 
SIENA IN MAY — EVENING 85 
LISTEN TO ME WELL 86 
AND IF 87 
MISUNDERSTANDING: I. 88 
II. 89 
"OPINIONS " 90 
THERE IS NO HAPPINESS OF CONTENTMENT IN 

MY HEART 91 

OBSESSION 92 

A POEM TO POETS 94 

THE BRITTLE MOUNTAIN 95 

FANCIES 96 

THE CITY LIFE 98 

THE NORTHERN SUMMER 99 
THE CLOCK STRUCK UPON THE BLUE JUNE AIR 100 

" CREDO " 101 



THE YOUTH AND HIS SOUL 

Youth. It is morning, 

The early star-sprinkled morning; 
Everything drinks and bathes; 
The down-flying shadows of birds 
Are dimly visible on the faces of brooks 
And upon the green shimmer of the trees. 
I am moved with a sweet expectation, 
A strange half-smiling restlessness. 
I too will yearn towards the sun 
Like these flowers, 
And become more tall 
Through my love of this sky. 
But now does the beauty of this dawn so fill me 
That I long to see its reflected image 
In the eyes of another; 
To join my voice 
To another's hymn of praise; 
For my whole ambition is saturated 
With a need of searching, 
Of turning over stones, of calling in valleys 
And listening in deep forests 
To the return of my echo in two keys. 
I must find the reason for this beating in my pulse 
And perceive the vision my smile broods over. 
I will undo the fetters of my brain 
And allow the fancies that pour from its brim 
To rush freely over my life's way 

3 



4 THE YOUTH AND HIS SOUL 

Leaping beyond all possibility 
In the very joy of their freedom. 
Ah, but I am immeshed, curtailed 
By this want of another. 

Soul. You are not alone. 

Youth. Who is speaking to me? 

Soul. I, your soul. 

Youth. I do not know your voice? 

Soul. Because until now you have never needed me. 

Youth. Why do I not see you? 

Soul. Because I am everywhere. 

Youth. Then lead me, where I wish to go. 

Soul. Where is that? 

Youth. I want to run fast down a green hill, 
To skip, sing, dance and tumble, 
To be thrown by that which is by my side 
And in turn to crush it to extinction. 

Soul. What shall that be by your side? 

Youth. The inversion of myself, the weakness of my 
pain, 
The tenderness of my passion, 
The — the acquiescence of my will, 
A being started from my very limitations 
Yet reflecting them, even as high windows give back 
The movements of the water over which they lean. 

Soul. You ask too little. 

Youth. How, too little? 



THE YOUTH AND HIS SOUL 5 

Soul. You want only a woman. 

Youth. If these things are a woman — give me one ! 

Soul. All things which are not the highest, are small 

And therefore dangerous to ask for. 
Youth. Let us be off, I am impatient. 
Soul. Look about you at the nobility of these trees, 

The magnificence of the torrent, 

The mystery in those still pools; 

They give you what you shall not miss 

Until you lose it — peace. 
Youth. Come! Come! 
Soul. Notice the polish of the foam bubbles, 

The glisten of the leaves, the coolness in the grass; 

You are one with it now, 

The expression of its master-piece — Purity. 
Youth. I am only praying for charm. 
Soul. Listen to the beating of your heart, 

To the throbbing of your blood; 

Look at the divinity of your limbs, 

They are sculptured from the spirit of health herself. 
Youth. But I am wanting for strength, 

The strength of seven bears 

To approach this woman with. 
Soul. And afterwards your excuse will be 

That you haven't heard me. 
Youth. Come, come with me. 
Soul. It is through me only that you shall find her 



6 THE YOUTH AND HIS SOUL 

And because of me, your soul, 

That you shall suffer in knowing her. 
Youth. Ah, it is too hot for riddles, 

The earth herself has become pale and sick 

With a disease of flowers. 

See, they are choking her distress with kisses. 

Come, let us go. 
Soul. Go, then. 
Youth. I hear music. 
Soul. For you now music shall lose all its sadness 

And preserve merely its charm; 

All words — good, bad, absurd and possible, 

All will promise joy only to you, 

And only common sense shall become, — a mere word. 
Youth. What you say 

Blows like a draught through the sunshine, 

I hear your words 

Without being sensible of them. 
Soul. Youth ! Youth ! how preposterously brave you 
are 

For you do not know the values — in fear. 
Youth. The music is nearer, and in it I hear 

The dancing of slender bodies under light veils. 

Ah, I must join in this bewilderment 

And toss the confusion that I feel 

With my own hands, — over my head ! 
Soul. I have drawn aside my hope for you — walk 
down. 



THE RETURN OF YOUTH AND HIS SOUL 

Youth. Ah, those loud-tongued black-hued fountains 
of despair, 
How they gush over me and torture me 
With the prickle of their drops! 
My soul, where art thou? 

But O, I forget on that night so clouded with caprice 
The moon herself turned white; 
I drew aside the last thin curtain of my reserve 
Entering those speckled halls 
Where whims spring from the end of fancies, — 
Fancies drugged from the very ashes of their decency; 
Where fantasy becomes the tool of so grotesque a 

scheme 
That violence herself slinks off affrighted. 
Then did my soul sway like an ended candle 
Sinking backwards 

Into the shadows behind my footsteps, 
While I — rushed forward 
Into a strange whimpering sound of music 
And saw the ends of sin, and folly 
United to their partners, insanity, decay; 
Then afterwards thru an odd and all embracing nausea 
I tumbled hard upon the earth, 
Clung to its roots and quavered at the moon. 
So now I wander over frozen ground 
That beats my feet less cruelly 
Than some screw above my heart, 
7 



8 RETURN OF YOUTH AND HIS SOUL 

With all of beauty turned mirage, 

And only hardship anchored. 

My soul, I am frantic with the need of nursing you. 

Return to me as a cut vine does 

To the bramble it embraces, — 

And I will feed you 

With the weeds of my disenchantments and my regrets, 

That blossom over the vacancy 

My sins have created, 

As smoke broods over the village 

Its flame has destroyed. 
Soul. I hear your words through the blurred wounds 

Your actions have dealt me. 
Youth. My soul, 

I need you far more than life itself. 

Promise me only 

That you will join me after my death, 

And I will drink of its breathlessness 

With joy. 
Soul. When youth prefers me to life, 

When life becomes far heavier to bear than death, 

And death turns a bridge for a meeting, 

Then may I raise my head and pursue once more 

My end, progression! 
Youth. You will come? 
Soul. I am within you. 

The spring of your tears, the color of your joys, 



RETURN OF YOUTH AND HIS SOUL g 

The nobility of your victories, the reason for your be- 
ing. 
Walk on ; your road has won its evenness from Pain. 
Youth. O life! the beauty of your peace 
Is immortality. 



MOODS 



OTHE pain of this summer mood, 
j The beauty of these too full roses, 
And these sounds of a well satisfied nature! 
How keenly she throws the looseness of her night caprices 
And the languor of her mornings at my starving heart! 
Over the garden wall I hear the noises of her harlotry, 
And into the garden steals the incense of her freedom 
Together with the broad laugh of her abandon ; 
So that I move slowly overcome with desire, 
Longing for the passion that hesitates in its strength 
And departs at its zenith; 
Longing also to dream something 
That is within my reach to have, 
And to have that which my dreams cannot exhaust. 
Over the garden wall I hear the noise of her harlotry 
And the heavy steps of her pleasures. 
I long to join in her convulsive pastime, 
But my soul forbids. 



10 



MOODS ii 



II 



My soul is a well of moods — 

Heavy and still from the accumulation 

Of its suppressions; 

My soul is a well that prays for a stone 

To disturb its tranquillity 

And torture its depths. 

My soul longs to be broken into freedom, 

Even as a rock cuts the lethargy 

Of old water into which it falls ; 

So does my soul desire to be mastered 

By the sweeping strength of a hard rebellion, 

Finding its paradise amongst those regrets 

Of very beautiful strange transgressions! 



12 MOODS 

III 

REBELLION 

Only that I am sad with an ache 

That may not burn itself away in temper, 

Only because I see too clearly the fruits 

Of a distasteful obedience, suppression, delusion, 

And am keenly sensible to a soul pity 

Which eats away in a moment 

The superficial comfort my optimism has grown ! 

For even as hot-house flowers expire at the touch of a 

weed, 

. * 

So is all my artifice washed naked with a tear, 

And through one sigh my heart is blown 

To the feet of truth — the truth of me 

Who am a garbled heroine 

Of wandered nights and sleep-sick noons, 

Of music fantasy and rhythmic madness, 

Of self-denial bordered to indulgence, 

And fasts that make a feast of neither food nor wine, — 

A one of long looks and deep findings, 

Of low voice heavy with timidity and lips backward 

From the intensity of the kiss they hold. 

For my feet as well as my soul 

Are bleeding from the ice on this easy way, 

And " everything on earth " is crushing me 



MOODS 13 



Into the " nothing " 
On which it rests most easily. — 
Such is the song of my rebellion, 
The vainness of my regrets, 
The sadness of my depression. 



i 4 MOODS 

IV 

What is heavier than my soul at this moment, 

Undisturbed by a single tremor, 

Unrelieved by a single purpose, 

Tranquil almost to unconsciousness? 

How I envy the pool's unrest 

Broken with the gestures of fish, 

The air's currents 

Agitated with a thousand sounds, 

And the earth herself 

Shattered by the evening wind! 

Ah, what is heavier than my soul at this moment, 

Undisturbed by a single tremor, 

Unrelieved by a single purpose, 

Tranquil almost to unconsciousness! 



MOODS 15 



A sinful mood gallops through my heart, 

Heating my pulses unbearably; 

I imagine too vividly the delights 

Of what I do not will to do, 

And that is painful. 

My fancies paint strange pictures 

Upon the floor of my imagination, 

So that my feet are steeped 

In what my hands decline. 

My body is far more high than my brain 

In this moment, 

Holding itself aloof from the ravages 

Of twin exhausters, soul and mind. 

I long and long for the control of my soul. 

Would that I could do with it 

What I can with my body! 

For my soul has looked through the great emptiness 

Of every, every star-locked door, 

And has even persuaded the musicians to play 

Upon the strange forbidden string. 

My soul is thin and sharp as the wind, 

But powerful as the sweetness 

Of all south air. 

I long and long for the control of my soul. 

Would that I could do with it 

What I can with my body! 



1 6 MOODS 



VI 



I am bewildered to the bottom of my thought, 
For nothing continues to be the same as the beginning, 
The beautiful beginning for which I paid with vows, 
Upon the understanding that it would always be the 

same. 
So I have shaken my conscience to the very core of its 

being, 
Since my conscience tried to make me accept life 
With a series of make-shifts, 
Whispering to my senses that it was possible for them to 

live 
Beneath questions and above facts, 
Attempting even the seduction of my soul; 
Therefore have I bruised my conscience into insignificance, 
Placing my soul over the cry of my heart and the excuse 

of my head. 
But still I am bewildered, shaken to the bottom of my 

thought, 
For nothing continues to be the same as the beginning, 
The beautiful beginning for which I paid with vows, 
Upon the understanding that it would always be the 

same. 



MOODS 17 

VII 

ENDING 

Into my soul has crept a strange invulnerable ending, 

As sleep creeps upon fatigue 

So has this ending stolen upon my soul, 

And like water slowly filling into a void 

Has gradually dulled all burning and aching, 

With the chill evenness of finality; 

Rising also up towards my pulses, 

My uneven seried pulses, 

Calming the fluttering of their nerves 

With a comfort of unconsciousness, 

Easing the pain of their insight 

With a conception of the infinite, 

Curing all by ending — all, 

So that I am under the sea 

But not oppressed by its weight, 

Aware of its lessons 

Yet unsurprised by its solution. 

Therefore my soul is also at peace with my hands, 

For like quarrelling children who sleep suddenly 

In the very midst of a dispute, 

So have my soul and hand joined minds, 

Through the common fate of this ending, 

This strange invulnerable ending, 

That has stolen upon my being like sleep upon fatigue. 



1 8 MOODS 

VIII 

My soul longs to be stirred, 

To be desperately stirred, 

Not by love with its swollen-eyed timidity 

And damp nervous hands, 

Nor by hatred with its storm-tossed mole-hills 

And its nasty expressions, 

Nor yet by fame with its absurd orchestra 

Of ill- tuned trumpets; 

But by something Doric, 

Seen far above me 

Through a line of cypress in a mirage of sapphire, 

With crest of beauty on the wave of fever; 

Something hard and exquisite 

Regal and destructive, 

Where my soul could dance 

With infinite madness 

On its mirrored repressions, 

Till all vision 

Wavered intensely 

In the violent arms 

Of a consummate relief. 



MOODS 19 

IX 

THE SPIRIT OF LOVE 

I am the spirit of love, 

The sister of every great sacrifice, 

And I play with a golden harp 

Strung upon the pulses of all triumphant sorrow. 

I play to those hearts heavy 

With the burden of growing love, 

And to those stretching hands that are faint 

From an attitude of deep giving; 

I play to the sigh in the heart of man, 

To the eye that follows a cloud ; 

And my music catches the sweet overflow 

Of all generously weeping souls, 

Turning their glorious weakness 

On the shuddering scales of a rare strain 

To chisel their tears with immortal gold; 

For the sadness of love is a golden grief, 

The tears of love are gems among angels, 

The joy of love is sun upon God ; 

And I am the spirit of love, 

The sister of every great sacrifice, 

And I play with a golden harp 

Strung upon the pulses of all triumphant sorrow. 



20 MOODS 



THE SPIRIT OF LONELINESS 

I am the spirit of tense loneliness, 

The brother of a white controlling truth ; 

And my feet are upon the wind at nightfall, 

Lending to it all of ineffable sadness; 

It is again my fingers that play through twilight 

In the moving mass of figured clouds, 

Extinguishing the beams of the dying sun 

With the mauve wand of deep silence ; 

Also I am in the receding tide 

And among the shadows of great trees, 

I live upon the sigh in the souls of men 

And the wistful prayers in the dreams of women; 

My only charity is compassion of the Infinite 

So driven by that which it rashly drives ; 

My one stern faith is the ultimate silence 

That shall fall upon the pulses of the spirit itself; 

My soul-taught love is for the ghost of fancy 

Which has never pretended once to be real ; 

And my only hope is to cease asking 

For hope and all her bed-ridden deceits. 

For I am the spirit of tense loneliness ; 

The brother of a white controlling truth ; 

And my feet are upon the wind of nightfall 



MOODS 21 

Lending to it all of ineffable sadness, 

And it is again my fingers that play through twilight 

In the moving mass of figured clouds, 

Extinguishing the beams of the dying sun 

With the mauve wand of deep silence. 



22 MOODS 

XI 
THE SPIRIT OF SOUL 

I am the spirit of the soul, 

The shining tear upon the robe of infintie desire; 

It is my nerves that lend to the soul 

Those wings for her dreams; 

My hands that take her briefly 

Through the muddy noise of strident life; 

My pulses that stir her blood 

With the urgent spirit of sharp enthusiasm ; 

For I am the blush upon the white rose 

Of her strange understanding ; 

The thrill that relieves the mastering beauty 

Of her rare passion; 

And the power that blows her 

Into the sky where she sits among the gods, 

Defying all the schemes of life 

To tarnish one star upon the glorious cloak 

Of her incomparable beauty; 

I am indeed the spirit of the soul, 

The shining tear upon the robe of infinite desire, 

And it is my nerves that lend to the soul 

Those wings for all of her dreams. 



MOODS 23 



XII 



My heart is full of twilight loneliness, 

It is the hour of regrets 

My soul is full of untaken tenderness, 

It is the moment of repose. 

My mind is full of unanswered questions, 

And my fancy is asleep beneath a brim of peace. 

My sadness has ceased weeping, 

Since its presence is inevitable. 

The hands of my spirit are folded 

Beneath the flutter of my hopes. 

The lamps of my pulses are shaded 

With the sound of my tears; 

For my heart is full of twilight loneliness ; 

It is the hour of regrets. 



24 MOODS 

XIII 

Have you ever waited 
In desperate loneliness, 
And utter depression 
For the breaking of daylight, 
Attending all weary 
A ragged procession 
Of memory's hours, 
Bespattered with tears; 
Then opened your window 
Out wide toward the morning, 
Exultantly breathing 
The vainness of hope? 



MOODS 25 



XIV 

It is a strange thing to be young, 

Yet always lonely; 

To be filled with the spirit of the dance 

And the essence of dreaming, 

Yet always lonely. 

It is odd to be continually surrounded 

Without any companionship, 

And finally thru isolation, 

To sneer thinly 

At all that one loves 

It is strange to be young, 

Young and lonely, 

To tear away the earth at night 

From the colored forms 

Of buried treasure; 

The glittering treasure 

Of midnight reverie 

And illustrated dreams, 

Yet to finger their gloss 

With solitary hands. 

So — life becomes bitter, 

Sleep cowardly; 

The dance falters, 

And the smoke — dies. 



26 MOODS 

XV 
"CONCESSION" 

Over me are creeping clouds, 

The very blackest clouds, 

The giant, chaotic clouds 

Of infinite concession. 

I look into the future 

And see the years spinning away from me 

Like tops, upon a slanting floor of glass; 

Then I look backwards 

In terror into my soul, 

And find it living in the crumpled tent 

Of a passing mirage; 

When all my nerves cry out, great God ! 

Why have you given eyes to witness such futility, 

Ears, but to be broken by these sounds 

That can deny even the gift of madness — 

Lips, only to strain and mutter with a curse inadequate? 

O ! to what end this undemanded gift of life ! 

And strange answers roll 

Beyond the brink of my understanding ; 

Chasms made of sneering bones 

Open to invite my stumble, 

Values fly upside-down 

Over my head, 

Laughing in a witless spite; 



MOODS 27 



And thru the sterile air 

I hear the cavilings of my soul 

In all the mighty grip 

Of a Titanic fear. 

Yes ! over me are creeping clouds, 

The very blackest clouds, 

The giant, chaotic clouds 

Of infinite concession. 



28 MOODS 

XVI 
SUICIDE 

Thus spoke I to my soul 

And shivered from so speaking. 

Behold! Here is the great temptation 

With incense for thy hungry nostrils, 

Colors to paint upon thy scratchy heart, 

And a fast of wine for thy feasts of water. 

Take this idea 

With a suave promptness, 

Even as a lover fingers 

The will of his mistress; 

Drink deeply 

Of this impossible thing, 

With thy hands freezing 

From a dancing of nerves; 

With quickening pulses 

That shall touch expiration 

Thru a thrall of sinking; 

Then shalt thou place merely at thy will 

Sea-deep rocks very much higher 

Than sky-blown clouds, 

Judging the destiny 

Of fighting stars, 

Playing also 

Among those motives 



MOODS 29 



That threaten space 

With the massive, invasions 

Of infinite life. 

Thus spoke I to my soul 

And shivered from so speaking. 

Behold, here is the great temptation 

With incense for thy hungry nostrils, 

Colors to paint upon thy scratchy heart, 

And a fast of wine for thy feasts of water. 



30 MOODS 

XVII 

RUN INTO THE FIELDS WITH ME 

Run into the fields with me, 

The grey windy fields of complete freedom; 

And as you pass the well, 

Throw into it all your material inheritance! 

Do not regret the hot sun, 

But learn to warm yourself in the wind. 

Neither must you languish after companions, 

For your solitude will teach you to find out someone. 

Run into the fields with me, 

The grey windy fields of complete freedom. 



WHAT DOES IT MEAN TO HAVE LIVED? 

WHAT does it mean to have lived ? — 
To have cried 
At the pain of our lot! 
What does it mean to have loved? 

To have sighed 
For the things that are not! 
What does it mean to have wrought 

some glow 
For the gods to inhale? 
Only the aching of thought 



with woe 



That is silent and pale. 



So if in this summing of mine 

The only adventure is death, 

Let us walk thru the sea towards the line 

That chokes and dissevers the breath, 

To greet the adventure — of Death. 



3i 



A WOMAN PASSED ME 

A WOMAN passed me in the street 
With red-heeled shoes on tiny feet, 
And face that through a mist of paint 
Shone helpless small and almost faint. 
The silken tightness of her gown 
Caused me to smile and then to frown, 
That so much beauty should so bare 
Its richness, in such foul night air. 
I watched her grace in full delight, 
Glad in the dark to find such light ; 
I framed some word to say to her 
(Forgotten slang came back to slur 
The strange white meaning of my mind) 
Towards this sweet plaything of mankind. 
Then clearly spoke a childish voice. 
I listened, for I had no choice; 
" Come on, why do you wait? " it said 
(My heart seemed struck with heated lead), 



32 



A WOMAN PASSED ME 33 

" They never wait," I heard her say, 
In tones with which the angels pray, 
" They take and kiss and so pass by." 
She ceased and then I heard her sigh, 
" So come and take what's left, look sharp " 
(Her voice strayed like a broken harp) 
And quivered down to meet her tears; 
A silence, while my soul grew years. 
" Is there not something else," I cried, 
" To do for you — to find your pride? " 
A stillness, then she laughed — " For this " 
(Her fingers pattered like a kiss 
Over the covers of her form) 
" There is no day after the storm, 
The other thing has crossed the ford. . . . 
This soul's been serving years — its Lord ! " 



TO DEATH 

COME and take what's left 
Of what your brother gave, 
Come and play the pipe 
That tunes me to the grave. 
Try to find a sign 
Of what your brother left; 
Seek among the rags 
And disinter my theft! 
Try to find a shade 
Of what was there at first ; 
Discover just a drop 
That has not fed my thirst! 
Search well among those rooms 
Where deeper things are kept ; 
You'll surely find the mark 
Of where my spirit slept, 
While body drank of flame, 
Enchanted with its shame, 
Where words were light as air, 
And foulness became fair! 
But just before we start, 
Uncover all your head 
And let me see the aim — 
For which my spirit bled. 



34 



IT IS A GLORIOUS MOMENT 

FT is a glorious moment when we throw away 
■*■ The inherited bread, with its smug butter 
Churned thru centuries in the mould of fear; 

It is a great day when we cast aside 

The fire on the hearth, for the flame in the soul, 

And throw off comfort, to sleep in peace; 

It is a splendid thing to widen the sky 
With our hope's breadth, and to suck darkness 
With the rare appetite for real night. 

And yet how sad are all great things, 
Sobering, remote as the tops of mountains, 
But pure and vivid as all clear air. 



35 



WEARINESS 

WEARINESS from naught! 
Therein the germ can lie, 
That makes our serried will 
All eagerness to die; 
That breaks our serried will 
Upon the block of hate, 
Beneath a chanting air 
Whose motif whines — Too Late, 
Beneath a ranting air 
Whose motif screams — Undone, 
Before I even was — 
And Christ ! — the race is run. 



36 



GRIEF 

AND as some ship afloat upon the sea 
Of stagnant tides goes sliding, sliding on; 
To wonder when the wind will lift her sail 
Or if the sun will ever shine again, 
So our poor souls go floating, gliding on 
Upon the glacial waters of despair, 
With hopeless gestures indicate of hope, 
To swell the fatal wreckage of the sea. 



37 



JANUARY MORNING 

I 

HOW grey the city day! 
How heavy with despair, 
The very hush of wind 
Is imminent with care. 
O ! how my spirit fits 
The pressure of this sigh 
And groans beneath a wish 
To vacillate and die! 

II 

A morning when 'tis dull to live, 

And still more dull to die; 

A morning when 'tis sad to laugh 

And more sad still to cry; 

A morning that is grey with mist 

And heavy with the rain, 

As if the air were drenched in tears 

Upon a wind of pain. 



38 



DESPAIR 

OGOD, let the sound of the crashing sea 
Or the breaking boom of the wind 
Outsob this cry in the heart of me, 
That I may not drown my mind. 

That I may not drown my mind, you hear, 
In the seething foam of hate, 
Nor drink too deep of that fatal sneer 
In the valley called Too Late. 

In that valley called Too Late, you know, 
Where the failures wander thick, 
With their archless feet thrust to and fro 
In the shadows that are sick. 

Where the tangled hum of eternal strife 
Falls stiff as the shroud of death 
And the veined pulse of our very life 
Is hushed on the ice fay's breath. 

Then, God, let the sound of the crashing sea 
Or the breaking boom of the wind 
Outsob this cry in the heart of me, 
That I may not drown my mind. 



39 



THOUGHTS AFTER AN HOUR SPENT IN 
A CABARET 

T HAVE invited you 

■*■ To dance. 

O listen to the music 

Swell and prance, 

Amidst the wattled glamour 

Of disease, 

That roars and rattles 

Like a can of peas. 

Come! come! my blonde, 

And hold me very tight, 

So that I'm sure your sense 

Is very faint and light; 

Then we will jog together 

Thigh to thigh, 

Until the floor splits 

And the air is high 

With mouldy powder 

And with fetid wine; 

Until my breath is yours, 

And your breath mine. 

Eh, listen to the music 

Swell and prance 

And — I — I have invited you 

To dance. 



40 



Oh, yes, I have invited you 
To dance. 

Watch their fat bodies 
As they swell and prance 
Within the rhythm 
Of the last decay — 
Those ribald shadows 
Of a lost dismay! 
But come — the game 
Is broadly finished; come! 
And let us pinch these shadows 
Ere they run — 
Life is a madhouse 
Where we roar and prance, 
And — I — I have invited you 
To dance. 



41 



SLEEP 

TO forget and to be forgotten 
Beneath the waving grass, 
To wake no more and whisper 
Another day — alas ! 
But just to slumber quietly 
Within the arms of sleep, 
A dreamless tearless slumber 
Which shadows guard and keep; 
Blind to the ills of living, 
Deaf to the wants of soul, 
Forgiven and forgiving 
Beneath our tranquil hole; 
All done with hopes and rancors, 
Farther down than they, 
In sleep the sleep unbroken 
With lashes closed for aye, 
Forgetting and forgotten 
Beneath the waving grass, 
No more to wake and whisper 
Another day — alas. 



42 



NEW YORK — ETCHED 

THE echo of iron! the drilling of steel! 
And from far underneath a din and a clatter, 
Man's retching and strain over gain and its matter, 
Far down in the street things that mingle and meet 
Are dust lifted papers with rushing of feet; 
And the ominous sounding of thousands of voices 
Aloft, you can't tell if it sobs or rejoices, 
For down in the street things that mingle and meet 
Are confusion of choices defying defeat, 
With a courage that labors unflinchingly keen 
For the griping of power and what it shall mean, 
For the griping of power and the clutching of law; 
Each man is a leader, and hopes to be more 
In those buildings that cut the sky into pieces, 
Strange columns of thought that each moontide increases ; 
Whose power plays havoc with even the wind, 
Lighting the bay where it meets with the ocean ; 
Showing the splendor that man has combined 
With the forces themselves through his work and devotion 
Showing the splendor that man has achieved 
In his fruits of rebellion from what was believed; 
Those fruits of rebellion that shadow the sun 
With a glory untrammelled and copied by none. 



43 



44 NEW YORK — ETCHED 

The echo of iron! the ringing of steel! 

Those bridges that arch for the passing of giants 

Joining country and city with iron alliance, 

Engaging the world to admire defiance; 

How the God of invention has spilled of his wares 

On these peaks of a city that builds as she cares, 

The mistress withal of gigantic ambition 

Still in her travail of mammoth fruition, — 

Fruition that urges to strive and to spend 

All worth for the joy of attaining an end. 

The echo of iron! the blasting of rock! 

It breeds up a rhythm of vast syncopations, 

A sound of the merging of hundreds of nations, 

It's the noise of a forge, the forge of the world — 

Where the scheme of the future is being unfurled, 

Where flesh-pots are weighed in to simmer and boil 

From their ashes being clad the fruits of their toil, 

The man of the future, a little of all, 

Through his merit to stand by his weakness to fall, 

The mouthpiece of wisdom he has not conceived, 

The voice of a power that's still unrevealed, 

Yea! the voice of a power that shatters the sun 

With a glory untrammelled and measured by none. 



QUATRAINS 

I 

WHEN dawn drew my palace in its glow, 
My soul cried, Lift thy weariness and go — 
Why — whence and whither on — still not to know 
Only that thou shalt sleep between despair. 

II 

Often a lonely wanderer I 
Have listened to the wind pass by 
And through its weary tension heard 
My tired soul's forbidden sigh. 

Ill 

Once through the fevered sweetness of a dream 

A voice called, mark these memories well that seem 

Merely the grotesque circlings of unrest, 

These are your truths without your fears between. 

IV 

O come, sweet friend, and let our step be slow, 
Regard the ocean's changing tide below, 
Then why to fret at such intangency, 
For like this water, so you come and go. 



45 



46 QUATRAINS 



I drew your love across the sound of harps, 
Strung on a tear of melting winter foam, 
That washed my soul in radiant ecstasy, 
So may a moment write a finished poem. 

VI 

If thou wouldst really live 
Make tragedy the outpost for thy wit 
And laughter the great basis for thy tears, 
Thus shalt thou truly victimize the years. 

VII 

Ah, love, this growing old is very sore 

To us who watch the change with youthful souls 

And hearts that beat as madly as before 

For findings we may seek — through — never more. 

VIII 

Here is the depth of wisdom, and the star 

Of beauty placed together in a jar, 

Select O youth a symmetry of grace 

And leave the rest to learn what circles are. 



QUATRAINS 47 

IX 

Into my hand I drew you as the ground 
Draws rain from heaven through its vast suspire, 
Just so I warmed your innocence with sound, 
Who fell — but from the need of my desire. 



Ah, love, good-bye at dawning is a word 
We lovers well may designate absurd, 
Yet final words while still the senses sing 
Leave free a song that man has rarely heard. 

XI 

Last night a sail upon the sea went by 
Dressed in the far-off moonlight of the sky; 
Poor sail made lonely from a light so high, 
And lonely light alone to shine and sigh. 

XII 

Some shout after a love in wild dismay 
Whose tape extinguished spark has flown its way, 
While yonder group with folded eyes adorn 
Their passive souls eternal neither way. 



48 QUATRAINS 

XIII 

O come, my soul has lived a thousand nights 
Within a moment's dream of you, beloved, 
So let us build this hour of delights 
And give our wrongs the title of our rights. 

XIV 

We lived the splendid golden moment, we 
Whose eager lips had tasted many wines — 
We drank of love as drowned men drink the sea 
Then — tears absorbed your face away from me. 

XV 

Life is a piece of sophistry, my dear, 
Played upon the tangled flutes of fear, 
Death the splendid folk-song of contempt 
That soars above the jangle life has meant. 

XVI 

Ah! was it wrong that for a moment we 
Tied fast our fears — so that our souls might see 
Their true life — rights aflame beneath our eyes 
That asked and gave — all that shall never be. 



QUATRAINS 49 

XVII 
THE CITY BLOCK 



Ten cents to eat, ten cents to drink, 
Ten cents to laugh, ten cents to cry; 
Ten cents to dance, ten cents to think 
Ten cents to think — then ten to die. 



HUITAIN 



SO came the day of days, the night of nights, 
When my unfettered soul was free to speak 
Of burdened wishes, and incarnate rights 
To plume its wings for the forbidden flights — 
Then did I turn to listen for the breath 
Of garnered gifts — immeasurably fair. 
O love! I did but listen to the air 
That blew around a space — where there was — death ! 

II 
SADNESS 

Like whispers that are gone before they form, 

A message for the object of their will, 

Like shadows that are passed before they warn 

The subject of their tenderness, until 

Some strange and broken radiance of the air 

Suggests a heavy weightfulness of care, 

And life seems built with pale and broken threads; 

Then, sadness takes the helm within our heads. 



50 



Ill 

Come, drink your way up to the river's edge, 
The 'cello plays too deeply to be borne, 
Come, crush life to the image of your soul, 
Let night loves shut away the sob of dawn. 
Who wants to see the village at the last, 
Or mark how ill the germ of life behaves? 
Better to stumble blackly on the dark, 
Than dying see the sun upon the waves. 



51 



SONNET 

O TRAGEDY, where is thy golden crest 
Or Life, thy merest possibility? 
Thou canst not fool me with a mess of dreams, 
Against the fatal effigy of truth; 
Thou canst not draw a sun across the moon, 
The pale sick moon of infinite distress, 
Nor fill my cup's deep space with drugged wine 
Against the total bitterness of truth. 

" I was " shouts loudly down upon " I am," 

I am, the son of murdered memories 

A dancer on a veiled undertow, 

Whose current sings "Be on your way to naught." 

O Tragedy, where is thy golden crest, 

Or Life, thy merest possibility! 



52 



GOOD NIGHT 

GOOD night, my strange impassive love, good night. 
Dream with your dark forbidden soul of me, 
Until the dawn is heavy with your sighs; 
Then shall you find me waiting at your knee. — 
Then shall you find me waiting at your knee 
With stories for the shudder of your whim, 
With fancies for the hour stand's caprice 
And imagery, to wrap our passion in. 



53 



THOSE SINS 

LET me outlive, outlive, 
Those sins I found through need! 
Ah, Christ, forgive! forgive! 
My soul faints as I plead; 
My soul faints to implore 
Forgiveness for its sins, 
My brain dies to its core, 
That I may sin no more. 



54 



MADONNA OF THE EYES 

WHAT curious thoughts could give, 
So young a head as yours 
Such odd and startling poise, 
Madonna, pale and slim? 

And what rare acts could give 
Such thinness to your hands, 
Such slowness to your step, 
Madonna, without sin? 

For there are things in you 
That measure just my depth, 
Madonna, of the Eyes, 
Give me your Truth — and Lies. 



55 



OH, HOW YOU HAUNT ME 

OH, how you haunt me through and through my days! 
Your eyes are like the memory of a mist 
That covers up the form of living things, 
And clouds all nature in a mystery. 

My life becomes a malady of dreams, 
For I am sick with pondering on your being, 
Weak with conjectures far too strong to name, 
111 from the bravery of my own despair! 



56 



SO PASSED THE MOMENT OF OUR LIVES 

SO passed the moment of our lives, 
Though neither of us knew 
That each would give his life away 
To pass that time anew. 

A life of dreams then came to us, 
Built on each other's aim, 
Yet sad to say too late we found 
That they were both the same. 



57 



YOU ARE WHAT I CAN NEVER FIND 

"VTOU are what I can never find, 

■■■ You play with that I dare not touch, 
Did I not love you over much. 
My tears had sought another mind. 

But, love, the threshold to your door 
Holds music of a vaster clue 
Than all the other songs heard through. 
Your answers make me question — more. 



58 



YOUR THOUGHTS 

I FEEL your thoughts are stealing back to me 
Away from all the jarring earth-alarms; 
I know your eyes are closing to recall 
The habits of my soul within your arms. 

How will it be when consciousness departs, 
And Judgment seeks the truth within us two? 
Will Justice hold herself, for you who are 
More poor through me who am made rich from you ? 



59 



FOR ALL MY LIFE 

FOR all my life 
I'd spoken in a tongue I knew not. 
And my tongue 

The language of my land lay hidden deep 
Under the tangled morass of my soul, 
Until one day 

Of torpid greyness and suspense, 
I heard you speak 
My way, and answered back 
So loudly, but with voice you could not hear. 



60 



YOUR HANDS, MY DEAR 

YOUR hands, my dear, 
I do so love your hands; 
For like thin flowers chilly with the dawn 
They sway and move among your draperies, 
Seeking to hide their pallid slenderness 
With modesty for such enchanting form. 



61 



THE DRESS 

THE dress I wore so happily 
Amidst the crowded tumult of your praise, 
I wear again, how differently dull 
Alone with just the memory of those days. 
That charming song of yours 
I play again enclosed with candlelight, 
And how its chords inflame my loneliness 
With longing that burns sharply through the night. 
So if upon these swooning summer-nights 
Your sweet suspended dreams I enter not 
With heaven-raked allurements for our love 
Then, Sweetheart, I deserve to be forgot. 



62 



AIMS 

TO treat full kindly all most foreign things 
And have no sense of value small enough 
To force against another's argument. 

To have a faith that brothers all of faith 

So widely that it comprehends the joy 

Of meeting God throughout the city's dust. 

So to live calmly, silent through the din, 
With organized impressions of the trend 
Our soul repasses towards its fairest end. 



63 



TO NELLIE 

WITH your eyes that are never quite free from tears, 
And your voice that is always bright, 
With your hands that move like a restless bird, 
Winging its way in fright! 
With a soul that sings 
Of such tragic things, 
Through that tiny shell of yours, 
That one asks how long 
Before such a song 
Will break up the life it brings! 
Then one wonders awhile 
How such senses fit 
With your greyish threadbare life. 
For your song is the song of the God of Chance, 
With the joy gone out of it. 
The secrets are many your eyes propose, 
Sweet woman of lonely reign, 
And the seasons shall blow your headstone down 
Before man shall have guessed your fame. 



64 



SOLDIER'S DEATH 

IT CALLED your name, beloved mine, 
-■■ In blessing as I fell. 
I took your head between my hands, 
And kissed your dear lips well. 
I heard your voice so clear and sweet 
Above the shell, 

You stooped and murmured thus to me 
Above that noise of Hell. 

I love you so — God hold your soul 

Until my soul is free, 

That we may bow together 

At His omnipotent knee. 

He knows my love for you is wide 

As all the sea — 

Then pray He let us go our way 

Together — you and me. 

A silence that was vivid gold 

Of pure untrammeled prayer — 

And then a sound of rising wind 

Upon the clear-cut air. 

A sound of wind that bore a voice aloft 

Immensely fair — 

A voice that granted freedom to 

Those souls who really care. 



65 



THE MORE I LIVE 

THE more I live, the more I fear not death 
But life, and the strange intimacy of 't, 
Those ties we forge in momentary will 
That last forever and beyond that time, 
Burning beneath the surface of our soul 
A sore quite depthless for it shows no mark. 
Then all that we have learnt to lean upon 
Like heaven, and the weary dread of hell 
Become so juggled, that at length we find 
A little of the other in each one. 



66 



TO-DAY 

TO-DAY, spun moments on a golden loom, 
We two, together in an antique room 
Did stir the dust upon another age, 
And finger grace amidst an ancient gloom, — 
A gloom through which the organ notes arose 
Upon a gentle cadency of sighs — 
Sweet sighs with all the eulogy one knows 
For love — that brooding spirit of surmise. 
And as I gazed beneath the imagery 
Of Persian flowers on a painted screen, 
Their beauty breathed so rare a sorcery, 
My life ebbed to the echoes of a dream, 
A dream towards which I looked vaguely distressed 
From out the garden of a rare delight 
In wonder at the heavy-laden plight 
Of souls who lived so vainly, sorely, prest, 
Until your voice, — or was it mine perhaps ? — 
Undid the silence like a sad refrain; 
Until your hand touched mine beyond the lapse 
Of memory, — I had forgot my pain. 



67 



YOUR EYES 

'\7^0UR eyes have all the Eastern subtlety 

■*• Of crime, and passion's exquisite misdeeds; 
Beneath their tense and lazy scrutiny 
I sense a pool to which a fountain leads; 
A pool so secret and so strangely deep, 
That all my soul stands quivering before 
The mad desire to descend and sleep 
Beneath this pool whose current sings (no more), 
Beneath this pool whose current sings and sighs, 
Behold I am the very spool of death; 
O come to me all you whose spirit cries, 
And I will cure you with a truth for lies. 



68 



/ WAKE IN WEARINESS 

| WAKE in weariness 
■*- And fall asleep in tears. 
Tell me, is this life's measure 
For all the future years? 

For if it is, my dear, 
Then I will have no more 
Of this deep ache of mine 
So deep, so sad, so sore. 

Then will I go to meet 
The dawn below the sea, 
And watch the bubble rise 
That once was breath — of me. 



69 



WHEN YOU COME TO ME 

WHEN you come to me 
I shall lay aside my pen 
And put away my book 

For ever. 

When you come to me, 
I shall open the window, 
Kissing the white sill-ice 

With love. 

When you come to me, 

I shall dust the room gently 

Pinning roses along the wall 

For light. 

Dressing 
Thru a lure of moonbeams, 
To the stir of roses, 
When you come to me! 



70 



YOU ARE THE IMPOSSIBLE 

"V^OU are the impossible, 

**■ And I worship you through a veil of passion 
With fanatic hands. 

You are the unattainable, 
Yet I look at you with hungry nerves 
And violent eyes. 

You are the inevitable, 
Yet I gaze upon you with strange terrors 
And odd submission! 

For you are the dancing 
Of my singing pulses, 
And the fragrant sob 
Of my very beautiful despair. 

O you are the impossible, 
And I worship you through a veil of passion 
With fanatic hands. 



7i 



EPILOGIA AMORI 

|"T comes with rushing worship, 
■*■ And leaves in blinding pain 
Like the tossing wind of Autumn 
With its breakage after rain, 
Like the dancing wind of Autumn 
With its cry more sad than sane. 

It comes with strangest tension, 
Remains in sharpest woe, 
Like a violin's suspension 
On some note profound and low, 
Like an agonized suspension 
On a violin's taut bow. 

But, ah, how it enchants us 

With its golden puissant gloom, 

Its blood-stained threads that wind us 

Through its mad immortal loom, 

Those blood-stained threads that bind us 

In a strange fantastic room. 

And who of us would change it 
For the calm of deep dead seas, 
Or sacrifice its madness 
For the peace of prayerful knees, 
Or capitize its sweetness 
For the calm of deep dead seas. 
72 



EPILOGIA AMORI 73 

So we'll not stay regretting 
Those dreams we could not live 
Nor grudge the pain of letting 
Our heart's blood thru a sieve, 
Nor curse the shame of setting 
Our soul where naught could live. 

For we are buds of grieving 

On the flower of despair, 

And we forge our way believing 

That life is fine and fair; 

Yes, we forge our way believing, 

And clutch the pale thin air. 



CAN IT BE? 

CAN it be that I shall love you like this, 
And never know you? 
Can life possibly continue to exist 
Amidst such frustration? 

For surely your dreams are blocked with the stuttering 
Of my inept expressions. 

And when you passed me, have you not felt the tension 
Of my leaning soul? 

Then surely you must have seen the restless daze 
Of my unsteady eyes. 
O can it be that I shall love you like this 
And never know you? 



74 



DISEASE 

WE are all divers in a pearl fishery, 
We rebellious seekers into the meaning of 
motives ; 
Like divers in a pearl fishery 
Who sink deeply after sick oysters, 
Bringing up the result of their labor — 
A diseased product — the priceless pearl. 
So we sink profoundly down 
Amidst the awe of real findings — 
Down into the sick nerves 
To the keen pulse of thoughtful men, 
Knowing we may catch there 
Among those strange sensitive depths 
The one treasure — a great brain — 
Finding out again that disease is priceless. 



75 



WHAT IS THIS MONSTROUS DELIRIOUS 
OBSESSION? 

WHAT is this monstrous delirious obsession — 
This lead-colored, jade-fluted craving 
That bothers my pulses with a twitching pain? 
Is it your lips I want or the worship of your soul? 
Do I crave to watch the slow unfolding of myself 
Upon those strange mosaics of your untutored senses? 
Or do I want you ! you ! to cover my contempts — 
With the deep blurring of abandon; 
For your voice bruises against the tenor of my thoughts 
With a Consuming sound, 

Your eyes exasperate the pleasure among my dreams 
And your lips — but I cannot think of them 
And hold my sanity. 

What is this monstrous delirious obsession, 
This lead-colored, jade-fluted craving 
That bothers my pulses with a twitching pain? 



76 



/ SAID GOOD NIGHT TO YOU 

I SAID good night to you — and walked away, 
But I felt like turning, with mad sharpness, 
My eyes' wish on to your eyes, 
So finding out 

What you really were meaning, 
I said good night to you and walked away* 
But I felt like holding you up abruptly 
Towards my lips to see if your lips 
Would tremble and open against the scorch 
Of my intense breathless flaming. 
I said good night to you — and walked away, 
But I felt like bruising your flesh with mine, 
Like twisting your lips with odd agonies, 
Like moving your soul towards strange abandons; 
Yet I said good night to you — and walked away. 



77 



IN MY GARDEN 

I SAT in my garden 
That is bounded by a marble snake, 
And flanked by purple cypresses 
With yellow fruits weighting them down. 
I sat in my garden 
Where the flower-beds are filled 
With colored waters where one bloom 
Floats strangely. 
I sat in my garden, 
Bathing my soul in deep silence, 
And noticed the unsteady walking 
Of a sleepy dove. 

The night grew profound and more profound, 
Yet I watched its trade with unwinking eyes, 
Seeing well the great shallowness 
From where I sat, aloof in my garden. 
I looked up once for diversion 
And saw in the starlight a vague pageant 
Of men's emotions floating gently 
Down, down towards my garden; 
Threading them through these varied emotions, 
Like a string from which the beads dangle, 
Were the tears of life — a blue fire 
Running the gamut of every nerve. 
Around them spun the futilities of life, 
Vainly, wildly trying to pierce 
Their dark truth for an ephemeral instant; 
78 



IN MY GARDEN 79 

Like fire-flies they were thinking to destroy 

A great night with a little flame. 

Then did I see the hopes of men 

Flying like swallows across the moon 

And I heard their balance 

Destroyed in space. 

Then also came the loves of men 

Sprawling all over the paths in my garden, 

Playing like kittens with a worsted ball, 

Stumbling, rolling head over heels, 

Yet righting themselves — with a frantic eye. 

Then did I see the thoughts of men 

Play like lightning over my garden, 

Burning its depths with a sullen glare — 

A strange complete ominous glimpsing 

Of all that which has no day. 

The night grew profound and more profound, 

Yet I watched its trade with unwinking eyes, 

Seeing well the great shallowness 

From where I sat, aloof in my garden. 



APHRODITE 

O APHRODITE! 
The columns of your temple 
Are the beams of my heart; 
Your colored pavements 
The flowers of my passions; 
Your leaping roof, 
The very dome above my soul! 
I breathe towards you 
In the warm still nights, 
Thru the playing fingers of Eros 
Who is jealous of my desire for you, 
For you, Aphrodite! 

Who possess the strange abandon of the last flower, 
And the challenge for all over-ardent seekers 
In your death-colored eyes. 
Listen to my worship 
As you listen to those flowers 
That riotously break their buds against the wind, 
Smiling at the rash charm 
Of so vain a sense — 
A sense that dares to hope 
It may inflame you 

From the powder of its sparkling charge, — 
You, O Aphrodite, 
Whose soul shines thru the marble 
Of your high contempt 
Like some far light with all the sea between. 
80 



SPRING 

SPRING full of virile curiosities 
For strange unsteady visions, 
Paved with petals 
Of invisible blossoms, 
Filled with the sobbing 
Of an untried bow. 
Eagerness and fright, 
Fright and weakness, 
Stirring together the sweets of our soul, 
Brewing sharp pains 
And soft indecisions, 
Urging disclosure 
Of what we subdue. 



81 



TO-NIGHT COMMENCES THE CITY 
SUMMER 

TO-NIGHT commences the city summer, 
A pedestaled labyrinth of yellow lights 
Tossing their shadows upon dark pavements. 
A mixed myriad of yearning music sounds, 
Addressed to later possibilities, 
And uneven voices 
All in the singular rhythm of passion. 
The night air is both light and heavy 
With laugh and desire, 
Both fresh and stale 
With changing comprehensions, 
Both wrong and right 
Through the contours of heritage. 
All the windows are wide 
And souls are touching the earth, 
Mingling their needs, suffering their pleasures, 
Digging their contempts — 
For to-night commences the city summer. 



82 



SISTERS 

I LIVE in the North, 
The strange contracted North, 
Filled always with the ecstasies of suppression. 
I dream through fogs 
Among an even consonance of shadows, 
Where no one dares look upon the path they follow. 
My song rolls backwards, 
Pressing sharply into pleading nerves 
Straining my soul almost to extinction. 

I live in the South, 

The languid sun-crowded South, 

Full of passionate loose-lipped laziness. 

I'm all of my wish, 

Therefore my sleep is vacant of dreams, 

And my waking uncovered with blushes. 

There are no thoughts 

At the bottom of my soul. 

For my soul is a fountain — at which every one drinks. 



83 



LOOKING INTO LAKE COMO AT MIDDAY 

SUPERLATIVE essence 
Of every soft color 
Mixed in with the water 
And shadows of boats. 
Ignorant laughter, 
Almost a singing, 
From people who guess not 
The scent of their sight. 



84 



SIENA IN MAY — EVENING 

1\/T ASSES of memories, 
-*-▼-■- Riotous colorings, 
Circling byways, 
All violently grand. 
Smells of the night, — Spring 
Oppressed with decaying. 
The past and the future 
Both linked in a mood. 



85 



LISTEN TO ME WELL 

LISTEN to me well, for you shall never hear me, 
My soul is emaciated from my longing for you, 
My heart is pale with the monotony of longing, 
My nerves scared from the clutching of fancy, 
And my hands thin, thin from clasping a dream — 
Have you never heard me beneath my silence 
Fighting through the waves of my passion for you, 
Clasping at the straws of my control with terror 
Lest the tide destroy your ignorance, love! 
Ah, listen to me well, for you shall never hear me. 



86 



AND IF 



A 



ND if 



To-morrow in this vastly deep 
Trough of the sea, I sink to find my sleep 
Beneath some mammoth hemorrhage of waves, 
I who have sought the kiss that spirit craves 
Choked under, by a thunder-pressing feast 
Of water, I who sought so for the wine 
To make my blood sing, as my spirit fleeced 
The truth, from Life's impediment of grime! 

Think not of me as one who bade farewell 

In sadness or with the most least regret, 

For I have suffered more than death could tell 

Of pain, at the poor way which life is set. 

So let no love for me weep at the name 

Of one whose soul from life was growing lame. 



87 



MIS UNDERSTANDING 



YOU stood before me like a flower 
Oppressed by the moon. 
Your lips moved faintly, 
Yet I heard no sound; 
Your eyes were obscurely raised 
To some shrine among your dreams, 
And your hands were prest severely 
Against one another. 
I wanted to call, to rend your dreams 
To crush your hands, to kiss your eyes. 
Somewhere a clock chimed, 
A rose fell from a crowded vase, — 
Then hope fled suddenly 
And I — I went away. 



MISUNDERSTANDING 89 

II 

The door closed; we were left alone, 

And a tempest froze my heart 

Into uneasy silence. 

A sun melted my bounding words 

To insignificance; 

A mad light blinded me 

With awkward fevers; 

What could I say to you 

Whose tongue was caught 

In such a net of flame? 

How touch you 

Whose hands were stuttering 

Under a new and terrible weight? 

How hold you — la conquered nothing ! 

The door closed — and I was left alone. 



"OPINIONS" 

A MAN once said to me, " I could have been great, 
-*- *- Had I not been ground in the mill of details, 
Gushed over by the spittle of meanness 
Until my frantic soul hemorrhaged its dreams 
Into the waste heap of total concession, 
Dying in an agony of unclean air! " 

A woman once said to me, " I could have been good, 

Had my flesh been unbartered till my mind was ripe, 

If I had not promised what I did not know; 

I could have faced the calamity of changing convictions 

Ascribing to nature that which is natural, 

Instead of cursing my bed and dreading my dreams." 

A child once said to me: "What fun to leap 
And dance on the sun-beams 
That cover the ocean in a crash of gold, 
Thinking of nothing but the joy of pushing 
Through the bright sun-water, up to the sky." 



90 



THERE IS NO HAPPINESS OF CONTENT- 
MENT IN MY HEART 

THERE is no happiness of contentment in my heart, 
And I laugh 
Only because tragedy is beautiful; 
Neither do I cry because life is sad, 
But only because misery is ugly; 

And again I do not live at all because life is possible 
But merely because dreams are true. 
O there is no happiness of contentment in my heart, 
And I laugh 
Because tragedy is so beautiful. 



9i 



OBSESSION 

T OFTEN said to myself, 

-■- What is an obsession? 

And my soul shook its head in negative comfort, 

Knowing that it had none. 

But I still wondered 

What is an obsession, 

What can it be like to have one 

Tugging at one's pulses? 

Then one day, 

Like the siren on an ambulance 

Which sounds its warning and arrives 

Almost simultaneously, 

It came rushing, 

Tearing into my life 

With a crushing gasping strength. 

It seemed to me first 

To have the eyes of Life, 

Then I saw 

It had the pallor of Death, 

Then all I felt 

Was a terrible torture. 

And doors closed 

With a loud banging 

Upon those corridors 

I had walked through freely 

In all the contentment 

Of huge ignorance. 

92 



*2 07 



OBSESSION 93 

And I was left 

Alone with this thing, 

In a heavy nightmare 

Of tangled drumming, 

Leaning against 

A crooked mirror 

Of frightful, frightful mad reflections. 

It was then I saw 

Almost extinguishing 

My life thru gazing, 

The frantic eyes 

Of a Consummate Obsession. 



A POEM TO POETS 

WE are an unhappy lot, 
We guessers after the infinite, 
And we run naked amuck through the halls of truth 
Bleeding like pigs from the pricks of real experience; 
Jolting roughly against recognized mysteries 
With incredulous shoulders; 
Running our fingers into the sky 
To sample its virtue; 
Digging under wells to water our souls; 
Investigating even the air 
With the scepticism of curiosity. 
No wonder our grace has gone 
Into the abyss with our rhyme, 
And we can no longer conceal 
The wounds of our vast perceptions 
With any bandage of irony, 
Or carry off our great tears 
On the sand-bar of wit. 
For we are sea-divers, 
Not fountain bathers, 
And we bring up blood not coral; 
Still (and here's the saddest) 
Wondering which is the best. 
For we are an unhappy lot, 
We guessers after the infinite, 

And we run naked amuck through the halls of truth, 
Bleeding like pigs from the pricks of real experience. 
94 



THE BRITTLE MOUNTAIN 

I AM climbing alone on a brittle mountain 
And below are the rabble singing rag time 
If I fall my bones will die fighting 
Amidst their wretched rabbits' runs; 
But if I get to the top of the mountain — 
(It's only brittle going up) 
My soul shall love the things surpassed 
With clear, even, passionless loving; 
Then shall I cry to the whirling clouds: 
Behold, behold, I no longer hate 
The slippery ice of the rabble's friendship, 
Or the masked heat of their mauling passion; 
For I have found the massive road, 
The road that leads beyond myself, 
Where crooked fingers can't touch me 
Or nasal voices rasp my balance 
With cavilling praise for all unripeness; 
And I have found the great loss, 
The loss of self, oh, pomp-struck rabble! 
So that I love you, truly I do 
For the yawning ditches you've made me jump. 
Yet — here I am still on this brittle mountain 
And below, — are the rabble singing rag time. 



95 



FANCIES 

WHAT monumental fancies have sat swinging 
Upon the crowbars of my conventional exist- 
ence, 
Tossing roses upon stones, 

And attempting to demolish the law with grace. 
So have my fancies sat swinging 
Upon the limitations of my inheritance, 
Singing of truth into the ravenous teeth of hypocrisy, 
Calling aloud to me — 
To me a heap of worn-out languors, 
To join them and fly up into the naked air 
And on, up to the pallid gates of the giddy moon; 
There to walk thru forests of cypress, 
To a pale temple of thin columns 
Where the nerves are worshipped 
And the soul unstrung. 
O if my feet were as strong as my will 
How I would have hurt the air in my rush 
Towards these bright sinister cravings 
With their broad suggestions and their singing prophe- 
cies. 
But my feet, my feet are sick from bathing 
In the depthless abyss of tense suppression, 
And they can no longer carry me into those fields 
Where freedom ruffles the hair of the wind, 
Where love heats the rays of the sun 
With hot strange enigmatical fingers. 

96 



FANCIES 97 

Ah! what monumental paramount fancies have sat oppo- 
site gaily swinging 
Upon the crowbars of my conventional existence. 



THE CITY LIFE 

THE city life moves sharply along 
Upon its pivot of noise and nervousness 
With the staccato tread of marked effeteness 
Amidst the glamour of transitory expression; 
Its air smote with the ugly dust 
Of ambition's momentary flights, 
Its sky-line appalled through the uneven yearning 
Of all men for a little nothing, 
Its pavement hard from the trampled hate 
Of all more than weary walking, 
Its whole atmosphere stale with the scent 
Of passing farce and vapid ending — 
So does the city life move sharply along 
Upon its pivot of noise and nervousness 
With the staccato tread of marked effeteness 
Amidst the glamour of transitory expression. 



98 



THE NORTHERN SUMMER 

OH, the deep green of this Northern summer 
How it flatters my soul with evasive dreaming, 
Touching my wisdom, my winter wisdom 
With the hot dancing feet of abandon, 
Calling to me, to my arid pulses, 
To beat again thru this mass of blossoms, 
To sigh once more in the lure of moonlight, 
To race again with the hounds of joy; 
And its voice steals up like broken music 
To where I stand, with my faded passions, 
To where I stand, with my stifled visions, 
Looking through tears at the summer valley, 
At the deep sweet green of the Northern summer 
That flatters my soul with evasive dreaming. 



99 



THE CLOCK STRUCK UPON THE BLUE 
JUNE AIR 

THE clock struck upon the blue June air 
And I gazed deeply at an orchid in my button- 
hole, 
At the deep mauve of a blue-veined orchid 
While the clock struck upon the blue June air. 
Then suddenly thru an intense silence, 
The hot silence of summer mid-day 
My eyes flared back, and I felt profoundly 
The ultimate grace of cosmic Youth, 
I felt it crowding behind my walking, 
Pushing my soul thru great arenas — 
Towards the arc-lights of vast conception 
There to mate with the moving truth. 
The clock struck upon the blue June air 
And I watched the sun, the blond bright sunlight, 
Dancing sharply among the tree tops 
While the clock struck upon the blue June air. 



ioo 



" CREDO " 

I BELIEVE in beauty, 
the white burning of man's soul for the wildly 
incredible ; 

I believe in truth, 

man's moving rebellion against the stationary fiction of 
moralities ; 

I believe in love, 

the strange binding of our nervous ecstasies into the vol- 
ume of life; 

I believe in hatred, 

the heaving discord of our creative insight beneath the 
back waters of satisfaction; 

I believe in life, 

that vast panting arc-light between our momentary ex- 
tinctions; 

And I believe in death, 

the great wind-sheet of transitory affliction and Eternal 
Birth. 



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